Falling From Memory
by rlu1
Summary: "Where's John?" The question came from Mr. Greg Lestrade. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, rolled his eyes. "I thought you called me in to solve a murder, not to have banal small talk." Little did Sherlock know that this case was about to touch too close to home and that he would soon be forced to face his emotions surrounding a certain ex-army doctor. Eventual Johnlock.
1. The First Chapter

_**Disclaimer: As much as I like to dream about owning Sherlock and his world, I sadly do not. He belongs to the genius of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. This story is for entertainment purposes only. Enjoy!**_

_**Also, please please please review because if there is anything I love just as much as I love our boy Sherlock, it is reviews. Reviews are to me what cake is to Mycroft. Your support gives me so many good feels and lovely motivation. **_

_** Currently rated T but note that this rating may increase to M based on which direction the story goes.**_

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"Where's John?"

The question came from a one Mister Greg Lestrade, grey-haired, tired-eyed Detective Inspector for New Scotland Yard.

Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective, rolled his sea-blue eyes and huffed in an exasperated way that sent his dark brunette curls bouncing. "I thought you called me in to solve a murder, not to have banal small talk."

Lestrade arched his eyebrows and the consulting detective gave another dramatic huff. He had known that the absence of John Watson, former army doctor and current blogger, would raise questions among the members of the Yard - after all, this was the first time that John had not shown up to a case in years and, if truth be told, Sherlock currently felt like a piece of him was missing. He finally said through gritted teeth, "I do not see how this is relevant to the case but...if you must know...he is with Mary."

Lestrade's forehead furrowed with confusion. "Mary...who's Mary?"

"His new girlfriend," the consulting detective muttered before pushing past Lestrade towards the crime scene. "What information do you have so far?" he asked over his shoulder as Lestrade jogged to catch up.

"Not much," the D.I. admitted. "I know you haven't had a case in quite some time and Mrs. Hudson was complaining that you have been shooting at her walls again, so I figured I'd just leave this one to your skills...if that is agreeable with you? Gives me some time to catch up on my sleep."

Sherlock nodded curtly. "You've been sleeping on the couch again."

Lestrade's lips formed a thin line and he refrained from answering the question.

By now, they were approaching a large freezer in which there was a briefcase and a figure lying face down with a clear bullet wound in the neck. Sherlock's steps quickened and he grabbed gloves, pulled them on hastily, and leaned over the freezer to analyze the body as he said nonchalantly, "Despite what you may wish to believe, your wife is still unhappy in your marriage. The constant arguing is not going to end, so I do hope you enjoy sleeping on the couch. Have you searched the victim's clothing and briefcase?"

Lestrade bit his lip before stating in exasperation, "I thought you didn't want banal small talk." But the poor D.I. quickly shut his mouth when he witnessed the cold look spreading across Sherlock's face. Clearing his throat, the D.I. changed the subject. "No, nothing has been searched. Again, this case is all yours. Though it's hard not to notice how much this guy looks like you...from the back at least."

Sherlock felt a chill run down his spine as he set his eyes on the corpse. What Lestrade had said was true - the deceased body, male, had the same body-build as the consulting detective, dark brown curls tumbled from its head, and the coat it wore (long, dark, wool tweed) was eerily similar in style to Sherlock's. Lying face down as it was, the body could easily have passed as his own. At this observation, the consulting detective's throat constricted for a brief moment but then he pushed the silly idea aside. _There are millions and millions of people in this world. It is only logical that some of us will look similar. _

Lestrade continued, "He was shot in the neck, as you can see. Since he was shoved into this freezer after death, there hasn't been much decomposition. But because of that, it's unclear if his death was recent or - "

"It occurred two years ago," Sherlock interrupted, pulling papers out of the side of the frozen briefcase.

Lestrade's mouth fell open. "And how do you know that?"

"Newspaper," and the consulting detective waved an icy newspaper in the air. "Dated from two years ago." Then he was waving another pile of icy papers in the air, "And graded tests, also dated from two years ago."

"Tests?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, pursed his plump lips, and gave Lestrade a defiant look. "Yes...tests...exams...he was an instructor, _obviously._ Do try to keep up. This is all boringly evident." His focus returned to the corpse. "A science professor, to be exact. A cursory glance at the front page of the exams tells us that they were for an Introduction to Chemistry class at King's College London taught by a Dr. Xavier Smithe."

His long fingers were searching the outer pocket of the briefcase again and he soon pulled out a science journal. As he skimmed it, his eyes glowed. "Ah, and he was very much an intellectual. Wrote an article about two and a half years ago on the process of ratiocination. It was obviously well-received as it was published in one of the world's leading science journals. Surprised I haven't read it yet. Do you mind if I take the journal with me? Reading his article may supply data to help solve the case."

"Be my guest," Lestrade said.

Sherlock was now examining the corpse's digits. "Calluses on the tips of his fingers and down the sides of his thumbs say he practiced piano quite regularly." As the consulting detective uttered this statement, his hands searched the pockets of the man's jacket. He pulled up a folded sheet of paper and, upon perusing its contents, a contented half-smile spread his lips. "And with lovely taste. This is sheet music for Sonata Number One in G Minor. Bach. One of my favourite pieces. Simply exquisite on the violin."

Lestrade chuckled slightly.

When Sherlock gave the D.I. a curious look, Lestrade raised a hand in apology. "I'm sorry, it's just...sounds like you two are twins or something. You're basically wearing the same clothes, you're bragging about his intellect, you're gushing over his taste in music..."

"Mmm..." Sherlock grunted absent-mindedly as he looked over the body again. But then the consulting detective's eyebrows furrowed in consternation.

"Sherlock - what's wrong?" Lestrade said, frowning slightly.

Sherlock stood to his full height. "I have read the newspapers every day since I was a child and yet I do not recall ever reading about a Dr. Xavier Smithe having gone missing." Then the detective was back over the corpse, delicate fingers searching the side pocket of the briefcase again.

The next item that he retrieved from the bag was an address book. With a cry of triumph, his blue eyes began to skim the pages. After mere seconds, he spoke again. "He was a solitary man."

Lestrade gave Sherlock a mild look of admiration. "And how do you know that?"

"His address book contains businesses, organizations, and colleagues. Colleagues whom he viewed as work partners and nothing more. He refers to them by their formal names. For instance, Dr. Malcolm, Dr. Tierre, Dr. Hansen. If they were friends, he would refer to them in a more casual manner. But there is no one here whom he refers to casually. No Mum or Dad or Sue or Bill or what have you. Conclusion: solitary man, with no friends or loved ones. That is why his death didn't have a big media presence. There was no one to miss him, aside from the university and really there are so many professors fighting for positions that his seat would have been filled quickly."

"Sounds just like you, freak." This voice was a woman's.

The two men turned to find that Sally Donovan, police officer for New Scotland Yard, had just entered the room, a smirk on her face.

"Afternoon," Sherlock muttered, letting a bored look graze his face as he turned his attention away from the woman.

"I said, sounds just like you," Sally repeated. "You are a solitary man with no friends or loved ones."

Sherlock was surprised and mildly annoyed to find that Sally's comment stung him in the chest. "I don't have _many_ friends, but I do have John."

Sally smirked. "I don't think you do, though. I don't see John. Where is he then?"

Sherlock's nostrils flared and the stinging in his chest intensified but he told himself to stay focused on the case. He turned back to Lestrade. "We need to make sure that this is, in fact, Dr. Xavier Smithe. Can you find a picture of him while I turn the body over?"

Lestrade nodded and retrieved his smartphone from his pocket. As the D.I. began typing, Sherlock returned to the body. He placed his hands firmly on one side of the torso and heaved. But as the body fell onto its back, the consulting detective staggered with a cry of shock and slight horror - for staring up at him was a very familiar face; it was pale and angular with sharp cheekbones, sea blue eyes, and plump lips.


	2. The Second Chapter

_**Thank you to everyone who has read this story and many, many hugs to those of you who have started following it. It means so much. Truly. **_

_**As always, reviews to me are what cake is to Mycroft. They make my life complete. I'm still waiting on my first review - so to that special person who leaves me my first review, Sherlock will give you one of his real, legit, genuine smiles! Now you know you want to be that special someone.**_

_**Oh yes, and a variation of the pool scene from Season 1, Episode 3 is in here - but emphasis on the word variation. In other words, it will not be like the pool scene in the episode so, if that's one of your favourite scenes, my apologies for changing it on you. Please forgive me.**_

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_"...all my soul within me burning."_

_-Edgar Allen Poe's "The Raven" (1845)_

"We're not a couple." John had uttered this statement so many times, he had lost count. And at first, the words had been said with anger and frustration. Because how in this world could people think that dependable, loyal, compassionate John would ever date the arrogant, cold, machine-like Sherlock Holmes?

Yet, as time went on, John began to utter the words with longing. No, they were _not_ a couple...but boy did he _wish_ that they were. Because why in this world _wouldn't_ danger-craving, risk-taking, gun-wielding John be attracted to the brilliant, heroic, completely gorgeous, and very human Sherlock Holmes?

John would never forget the day that he realized just how much he wanted Sherlock. The day that the consulting detective set John's world on fire. Though it had started out just like any other day (John waking up to find that Sherlock had replaced his breakfast in the fridge with a severed head, while Sherlock lay dramatically across the couch hissing and moaning about how boring everything was), it was the day that John went and got himself kidnapped. The day that he had gone for a simple walk in the park, had been beaten unconscious, and had woken up full of bruises at the local swimming pool, with bombs strapped to his chest and a glassy-eyed Sherlock Holmes leaning over him, breathing warm, heavy, and frightened gasps across the doctor's swollen skin, pale fingers frantically trying to crack the bomb's code. "John...what the hell...John...John...John..."

And though John should have been afraid, though John should have been distraught, he was perhaps happier than he had ever been - because how could he never have seen how beautiful (how _fucking beautiful_) Sherlock Holmes was before? How had he never noticed the way that Sherlock's eyes swirled blue, grey, green, and gold all at once - a feverish, wonderful, fierce tango of colour and brilliance? How had he never smelled the rich thickness and musky sweetness that was unique to Sherlock Holmes before this moment? And how could he have been such an idiot to think this curly-haired man a machine when here before him was proof that Sherlock was, in fact, the most frightened, vulnerable, _magnificently human_ human being in the world?

Where the detective's eyes were normally cold and emotionless, now they had begun to turn a ghastly shade of red. And, though John had seen the detective confront criminals and murderers twice his size without a moment's hesitation, now those normally-steady hands were trembling intensely. "John...I can't figure out the code...John...I can't figure it out..." Sherlock finally whispered breathlessly, his eyebrows knitted in frustration, eyes radiating energy. And then...finally...that look of complete comprehension washed over the detective's fine features and he entered the code into the bomb's timer within a matter of milliseconds.

As the bomb deactivated, the detective unravelled the contraption from the doctor's swollen body, threw it across the length of the pool, and sagged wearily into John's form. John could feel Sherlock's heart throbbing against his chest and the sensation sent the former army doctor's innards on fire; a warm, comfortable, strong, friendly fire that lapped in all the right places. And then, Sherlock was laughing against John, a mirthful, adrenaline-laced sound that rang through the air as sweet as honey and which inevitably sent John into his own set of hysterical, joyful chuckles.

They clutched at one another, laughing and giggling, and John gasped out in between breaths, "You ripping stuff off me in a darkened swimming pool...now people are really going to talk...about us...as a couple..."

Sherlock's breathing steadied and he pulled away from the shorter man. His voice was gentle but terse as he replied, "People do little else."

A silence consumed them then.

Finally, John spoke. "Does it bother you that people talk about us in that way?"

Sherlock did not hesitate in his response. "No, not at all."

And before John knew what he was doing, his hands were caressing the detective's chiselled cheeks, he was ignoring Sherlock's sharp intake of breath, and he was crushing his lips against the plump, tender lips of the detective, trying to convey all of his emotions (his frustration, his agitation, his gratitude, his love, his passion, his anger, all of it) within the warmth and intensity of the kiss.

The doctor's stomach churned with pleasure when he heard Sherlock moan contentedly against him. John could feel the detective's lips turn upward in a genuine smile, and the detective's fingers started massaging gently at the various bruises that covered the doctor's body. But then, in the next moment, there were firm hands against John's chest and Sherlock frowned before hissing an adamant, "No."

And when Sherlock pulled away from the doctor, his sea blue eyes were once again cold and his angular features were once again hard.

The fire in John's heart weakened for an instant but then crackled and re-ignited with a hotness like never before. Sherlock _had_ been enjoying their moment of intimacy - John was sure of it. He searched the detective's face for an answer but found the curly-haired man's expression absolutely unreadable.

Clearing his throat, John asked in a pathetically quiet voice, "Why not?"

Sherlock's tone was coarse and curt. "I've told you before, I am married to my work. I crave the stability of it; the fact that the work - the evidence, the data - is based on reason, it is rational. Caring is not stable, John. It is not based on reason. It is not rational. It makes the mind weak. Because if you care, you will get hurt. I will not make the mistake of caring. Don't you see that it is a disadvantage?"

"But this...you saving me...didn't you do it because you care about me?" John questioned in a small but hopeful tone.

The consulting detective gave John an intense stare but remained silent. Then he stood up and walked away, his coat billowing after him. Where the fire had blazoned in John's heart but minutes before, he now felt cold and damp and utterly hollow. The pain of the bruises covering his body engulfed his mind and sent him into tears.

And from then on, every time he had to tell someone, "We're not a couple," the desire and longing within his body threatened to push him to the point of exploding. Because no, they were _not_ a couple...but boy did he _wish_ that they were. He wished it more than anything in the entire universe.

But then he met Mary Morstan. Mary, with her gentle blonde hair, warm blue eyes, and sweet sweet smile. Sympathetic, full-hearted, utterly caring Mary. And though she did not ignite a fire in the former army doctor's heart, she did ignite a flurry of butterflies in his stomach and that felt very nice indeed.


	3. The Third Chapter

_**Let me start by saying, WOW! WOW, WOW, WOW! Words cannot express my gratitude at the support this story has been receiving. Really, you are too too kind. **_

_**Congratulations to Amanda Do'Urden for being the first person to review this piece. For that, she receives a lovely smile from Sherlock - you know the smile I am talking about, the one where his eyes simply sparkle and the skin around his eyes wrinkles with pure joy. Yes, he gives her one of those smiles. :)**_

_**Also, many many hugs and thank you's to the amazing tosinadekunle, Teshka, Sue, EJ 12212012, Snow White, and GBfan 29. Your reviews seriously warmed my heart and made me blush. Your kind words mean so much to me.  
**_

_**Now onto Chapter 3. **_

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It had taken Sherlock Holmes exactly 5.3 seconds to recover from his position of agonized horror (one which involved wobbly legs, leaden feet, blazing blue eyes, puckered lips, skin as pale as snow, and the tearing of curly brown hair to the point that it looked like it had been through a windstorm) at the sight of the victim.

Greg Lestrade, however, took a much longer time to recover. When the D.I. witnessed the victim's face, his body went absolutely rigid and his mouth fell open in a perfect O. Sally Donovan did not fare much better - she looked about ready to faint and quickly excused herself, rushing out of the room without so much as a glance over her shoulder.

"Holy shit…I mean…_holy shit_…I knew there were similarities…you know… the coat…the hair…the height…the weight…but holy shit…you're…you look...you look basically identical…" Lestrade kept whispering under his breath, eyes darting between the body and the consulting detective.

A clearly agitated Sherlock leant over the fridge once again, this time examining the front of the corpse. The consulting detective's eyebrows were turned downward in such a fury that a sharp line had formed at his temple, and he kept biting his lower lip.

"Are you okay, Sherlock? You've been acting pretty shaken up ever since you flipped the body over," Lestrade dared to say after a long stretch of time had passed in silence. The D.I. himself was more than a little spooked by the stark resemblance between the two figures in front of him, and he could understand if the consulting detective was feeling uncomfortable about the whole situation. "We can take a break you know."

Sherlock gave Lestrade a vehement glare and practically spat, "I DON'T NEED A BREAK! I AM FINE!" He took a shuddering breath before continuing in a low growl, "Don't try to deduce me. It will only serve to make you look more idiotic than you already do. Now either leave the room or stop thinking - your thoughts are infuriating!" And with that, the consulting detective slammed his hands down gruffly on both sides of the freezer and groaned dramatically.

Truthfully, Sherlock was absolutely alarmed by the fact that the victim looked so much like him. And naturally, he was also utterly, incredibly, _achingly_ annoyed at his current state of distress. He closed his eyes, feeling an overwhelming wave of vertigo. His mind was racing at the speed of light and, though he tried desperately to focus on the case, he found himself drawn back to one thought. A thought that he could not begin to understand. A thought he did not _want_ to begin to understand. A thought that sent a variety of uncomfortable, aggravating, disgusting emotions coursing through his slender body. A horrid thought that he longed so badly to delete because it was completely irrelevant to the work at hand. And yet he couldn't erase it. It ricocheted through his mind palace viciously and circuitously. _ What if it was my body lying there instead of his? What if it were me instead of him? What if it were me instead of him?_

"SHUT UP!" the consulting detective moaned in agony, his fingers pulling fiercely and furiously at his hair.

Lestrade jumped. "Oh, come on! Surely I wasn't thinking anything infuriating _that_ time."

The curly-haired man gritted his teeth, and spun on his heels to turn blazing eyes on the poor D.I. "I wasn't talking to _you_!"

Lestrade raised his eyebrows in consternation. "Who were you talking to then?"

Sherlock pursed his lips. "Myself."

After taking another shaky breath, he resumed his examination of the body, his fingers delicately massaging around the victim's mouth, his sea blue eyes glassy and distant. But as his fingers began to massage the victim's jaw, his face transformed. There was a glint of excitement that lit his eyes, and a flicker of a smile graced his lips. "Fascinating," he said under his breath.

A few more moments passed and then the consulting detective looked at Lestrade with an expression befitting a birthday party rather than a crime scene. "The bullet to the neck was the cause of death, but it's likely the victim would have died soon regardless. Judging by the state of his decaying teeth, his damaged gums, his swelling jaw, and the honeycombed condition of his jawbone, he was suffering from the beginning stages of radiation poisoning. His symptoms are similar to the initial symptoms suffered by the Radium Girls. Female factory workers during the earlier half of the 1900s. They painted radium powder onto items such as watch dials to make them glow in the dark. The women were told the radium powder was harmless and, so, would lick the tips of their paintbrushes to create ideal points with which to paint. Some of the workers were so attracted to the glow in the dark effects of the radium that they even painted their teeth and their nails with the substance. Many of these women suffered horrible, often fatal, maladies as a result, though these maladies were not immediately apparent."

Lestrade watched the consulting detective with a mixture of concern and veneration.

"I will have to conduct some experiments to confirm. And judging by the bullet wound, the bullet is still embedded in the body. Utterly dull but I will have to examine it, of course. Have the body sent to St. Bart's. Tell Molly to text me when it arrives," and with those words, the curly-haired man turned, pulled his cell phone out of his coat pocket, and began to take large strides towards the door.

"Where are you going?" the D.I. called after the quickly-retreating form.

Sherlock did not even pause as he replied, "King's College."

His fingers hit the buttons of his phone excitedly, the distress that he had felt only minutes before now replaced with a delightful rush of adrenaline. A bullet wound alone was not overly exciting, but the addition of potential radiation poisoning was quite delicious. It was just the kind of twist that John would roll his eyes at but would secretly appreciate, the sort of finding that would send John into gushes of "Brilliant, Sherlock, you are fantastic." Sherlock adored receiving John's praises. And besides, John had been with Mary since morning - surely the former army doctor would be itching for some excitement and good old-fashioned danger by now.

**King's College in 20 minutes. Need my blogger. SH**

A faint smile spread across the consulting detective's lips as he sent the text to John, and he found himself whispering under his breath, "The game is on."

Then he waved his hand with gusto towards a passing cab and was sliding into the backseat before the cab had made a complete stop. "King's College," he said in a hurried tone.

He was feeling better now - much, much better. Giddy with adrenaline that coursed through his veins at energizing speed. He placed his fingers under his chin and licked his lips at the anticipation of the game. The puzzle. The dark, winding, comfortable tunnel of mystery that he was embarking on. It was absolutely exhilarating. Oh, how he was going to enjoy winning this game. Putting the puzzle pieces together. Finding the light at the end of the tunnel. Revealing the order out of seeming chaos.

His phone buzzed and his smile grew as he reached into his coat pocket to retrieve it. But once he read the message on the screen, his smile faded and his skin blanched. In fact, he felt like perhaps he would never smile again. No longer was the dark, winding tunnel comfortable and welcoming - now it was filled with impenetrable dankness, cold and suffocating and hopelessly chaotic. The message that John had just sent blazed brightly and mockingly across Sherlock's phone.

**Will have to pass this time. Spending the day with Mary. Don't forget to eat and don't do anything stupid.**

It couldn't be true...it just couldn't be true...John had never passed up on an opportunity like this..._never..._until now. Before he could suppress the overpowering emotions that were pooling in his chest, Sherlock's phone had tumbled from his hands. He stared at it dejectedly, too numb to find the strength or the desire to pick it up. His breathing was coming to him in short, sharp puffs as Sally's words echoed painfully through his mind. _You are a solitary man with no friends or loved ones…I don't see John. Where is he then? _

_Freak._

_Freak._

_Freak. _

Sherlock's voice sounded pitiful and pleading as he told the cab driver, "Take me to 221B Baker Street instead. Please."

For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes did not want to play the game. For the first time in his life, this felt like a game that the world's only consulting detective simply could not win.


	4. The Fourth Chapter

_**Okay, I am speechless. Simply speechless. I posted the first chapter of this fanfic on Monday, and already this story has over 1,000 views, 30 followers, 9 favourites, and 14 reviews. You are incredible! Your support is my inspiration! Thank you, and so many hugs and kisses.**_

_**A special thanks to beemoh, abutterflymind, EJ 12212012, tosinadekunle, and Snow White for their recent reviews. Again, your kind words mean the world and seriously make me blush.**_

* * *

"Oh Sherlock," John Watson moaned against warm lips. His head was buzzing in pure euphoria, his heart was crying for joy against his chest, and a bubbling desire was sizzling in his trousers. He was floating on a cloud of bliss and he never wanted to come down.

But down he came, and it was a dreadfully hard landing back into the reality of the rainy London evening.

First, the warm lips parted from his in shock, and began to tremble in a mixture of hurt and outrage. Then, "What did you call me?" Mary asked sharply.

John's eyes widened and then he sighed, lowering his head in shame. "Oh bloody hell. Mary…I am _so_ sorry."

Mary sucked in her porcelain cheeks and tears formed in her usually mirthful eyes.

The former army doctor was running his hands through his hair and down his face now. "Mary…darling…I didn't mean anything by it…"

"You didn't _mean_ anything by it?" the bright-eyed woman cried shrewdly. "We were kissing…we were _kissing_, John…and you yelled out your _flatmate's_ name…while we were _kissing_…and you're telling me you didn't _mean_ anything by it…what…what the _hell_ were you thinking about…where was your mind…this is _unbelievable…"_

John nodded and cleared his throat hesitantly. "I'm…I know…I'm sorry, Mary. I guess…I guess my mind was elsewhere."

Mary's eyebrows arched and she asked in an acidic tone, "And where was it exactly?"

"Just…you know…thinking about the text Sherlock sent earlier today…to meet at King's College…I was just wondering…you know…how the case is going…" the poor doctor stammered dejectedly.

This wasn't a total lie. It was definitely true that John was curious about the case. He wished he had been able to hear Sherlock's deductions at the crime scene. He had wanted so badly to help Sherlock collect additional data. And he wondered if Sherlock had had to chase any criminals through the city this time. Yet, if John had been completely honest with Mary, he would have told her that as his lips met the warmth and softness of hers, his mind had transformed her - her gentle blonde hair had changed to soft brunette curls, her warm blue eyes had begun to radiate hues of silver, gold, and green, and suddenly she smelled like Sherlock and she tasted like Sherlock and oh dear how he had wanted Sherlock, Sherlock, _Sherlock._ But naturally, he could never admit this horrible truth to darling Mary. _His_ darling Mary.

The poor woman looked deflated enough as it was. "You would rather be with him than with me," she said in a voice that was barely audible.

John shook his head vehemently and frowned. "Don't…don't say that…I didn't go, did I? I'm here…I stayed with you." And it had not been easy for the former army doctor to pass up the excitement of a case. But Mary was lovely, she was truly lovely…and it was time for him to stop fantasizing about Sherlock Holmes. It was time to accept that the consulting detective would never want anything beyond what the two of them already had. John knew he needed to move on and so, when the text message calling him to King's College had blazed across the screen of his phone, he had looked into the beautiful blue eyes of Mary Morstan and he had known that he had to stay with her, the wonderful woman who sent butterflies dancing in his stomach every time she smiled. He needed her to understand how special she was and his voice turned pleading as he said, "Mary…darling…he's my best friend but you…you are _more_ than that…"

Mary sniffed and wrapped her arms around her chest protectively. "I want to believe you, John. And yet, it seems you would rather solve cases with him instead of share a romantic night with me."

"No…no, no, no, no…" John whispered fervently, holding Mary's shoulders gently, looking deep into her eyes. His stomach churned - oh, she was so sweet and so gentle and he truly enjoyed being with her; but he couldn't deny or shake the thought that was now tumbling back and forth in his mind. _Yes…yes, yes, yes, yes…you're right Mary…you're right…I _would_ rather be solving cases with Sherlock than sharing a romantic night with you._ Yet, despite the fact that this thought - this _truth_ - kept churning through his mind, his heart still ached in guilt and regret when Mary uttered the following words:

"Please leave."

Now the former army doctor felt absolutely wretched. He hated himself - he was a complete arse. Mary was amazing and he…he was a total fool of a man.

"Mary…" he moaned, reaching out to touch her sweet cheeks. But she turned away from him then, and sighed as she watched the rain fall outside the window.

"I just need some space, okay? But I will call tomorrow."

John placed a hand on the small of her back. "Promise?"

She gave him a smile that was sad and faint. "Promise. Good night, John."

* * *

Half an hour later found John exiting a taxi and storming into 221B Baker Street. The former army doctor had spent the taxi ride dreaming of a nice cuppa and a sweltering hot shower to calm his wrecked nerves, but he forgot all of these desires as soon as he entered the living room. Sherlock was sitting on the couch in night clothes, a distant look in his eyes, a scowl on his lips, his silky blue dressing gown falling haphazardly off of his slender form.

"Oh…" John said, approaching the consulting detective. "I didn't expect to see you here. I thought you'd be out working on the case. You've solved it then?"

Sherlock's gaze remained distant as he continued to stare unblinkingly ahead of him. He did not speak for the longest time but when he finally opened his mouth, his voice came out in a slow, irritated drawl. "Nooo."

John gaped at his flatmate in consternation. Something was very wrong with the picture in front of him. Sherlock should not, _absolutely should not_, be sitting on the couch with a far-away, lost, helpless expression on his face and his dressing gown falling off his slender form - _not_ in the middle of a case. No, he should be out at St. Bart's or at the Yard; he should be conducting experiments, collecting data, chasing after suspects; he should be wearing his pristine shirts or one of his various disguises. And even if he _did_ return to the flat during a case, it would be to sift through data or to retreat into his mind palace, fingers steepled under his chin and eyes closed to the world; it would most certainly _not_ be to sit dejectedly on the couch in his night clothes the way he was now. And yet, even in this state, Sherlock was perhaps the most beautiful creature John had ever seen - the way the silky robe revealed the contours of his body, how his lips could still look so plump and perfect even when they were pursued tightly in a frown. _Damn it!_ _Damn it all to hell!_

John closed his eyes in exasperation and cursed under his breath at the way his blood was rushing downwards. He cleared his throat and tried to keep his voice steady. "How was King's College? What did you find out? Anything interesting?"

"I didn't go," Sherlock said firmly, his gaze still unblinking.

Now John was absolutely perplexed. He sat down on the couch next to his friend. "Oh…how was St. Bart's then? You must have gone there. Is Molly well?"

"I don't know, I didn't go," Sherlock muttered vacantly.

"Well, what did you do all afternoon then?"

"This," and Sherlock waved one of his hands around dramatically before letting it fall limply at his side. His frown intensified and he slid deeper into the couch.

"By this, you mean sitting here staring into space?" John asked gently, leaning forward to look at the detective with concern.

"Obviously." Sherlock's gaze flickered over to John's face then, and the doctor couldn't quite read the emotion that was burning in his friend's eyes. Was it grief? Betrayal? Hurt? Agitation? Anger? Outrage?

"Sherlock, what's wrong? Are you feeling alright?"

And John was in doctor mode, his hand moving to Sherlock's forehead to check for signs of a fever. But he had barely touched the consulting detective's pale skin when Sherlock cried out in agony and leapt from the couch with a ragged, "DO NOT TOUCH ME!"

John watched intensely as the curly-haired man moved to the window in a breathless frenzy. The room was filled with silence for a very long time - but when the detective spoke again, his voice was much calmer and steadier than it had been. "You and Mary had a row."

At this observation, John swallowed a particularly large, sticky wad of saliva. This was one of the rare moments when he resented Sherlock's acute deductive skills. But lying to the bloody genius was futile so John did the only thing he could do. He muttered in defeat, "Um…yeah, we did."

And then the poor doctor's head was in his hands, his shoulders were shuddering, and he was sniffling uncontrollably as he tried viciously to fight back tears. "Oh God, Sherlock…it's all my fault…and I just hope she can forgive me…we were having a lovely time - "

Sherlock grimaced as a sharp, twisting pain took control of his lungs. Something deep inside him snapped, and his voice came out strained and sharp. "John, I do not wish to hear about your troubles."

John's breath caught in his chest and his shoulders turned stiff. He lifted his tear-stained face slowly and looked at the detective in utter disbelief. Despite his tearful break-down, he hadn't been about to reveal the severity of his troubles: that he had moaned Sherlock's name when he had been kissing Mary. But nevertheless, Sherlock's uncaring words bit the poor doctor to the core. There was an unbearable, undesirable hurt in his red, swollen eyes. "You…you are cold, Sherlock." And with a sad shake of his head and a bitter laugh, the former army doctor stood on shaky legs and made for his room.

"John…wait…I didn't -" Sherlock grabbed John's arm in desperation.

"Sod off, you arrogant git," John spat, digging fingernails into Sherlock's wrist. Then the doctor was storming up the stairs and slamming the door to his room with every bit of military strength he could muster.

Sherlock wanted to roll his eyes in indifference but he simply stood in the middle of the living room, looking up the stairs. Finally, the detective picked up his violin and bow, and returned to the window with a sigh. He placed the delicate instrument under his chin and closed his eyes, but his arms began to throb uncomfortably. The violin and bow tumbled from his shaky grasp, landing dejectedly at his feet, and all he could do was stare at the world outside the window, lost blue eyes watching the raindrops as they landed on the cold, dark street below.


	5. The Fifth Chapter

**_As always, a heartfelt thanks to all of you who support this work. And special hugs to the 10 of you who are new followers and/or favouriters, and to beemoh, abutterflymind, johnsarmylady, and EJ 12212012 for your recent reviews. Again, your kindness makes my day! :)_**

* * *

When John woke up the next morning, he felt a flood of emotions. He was slightly irritated. He was incredibly melancholy. But, perhaps most of all, he felt absolutely and completely ashamed.

Ashamed of the way he had yelled and lashed out at his best friend - the man who had brought the doctor back to life after Afghanistan, when everything had seemed meaningless and lonely next to the taste of adventure and adrenaline.

Ashamed because he should have known better - after all, he was perfectly aware of the fact that Sherlock did not understand how to properly address emotional situations, and yet he had placed the curly-haired man right in the centre of a particularly heavy one. And the doctor never wanted his flatmate to change - not in a million years. No, Sherlock was perfect just the way he was. Stunningly brilliant and yet endearingly innocent; astoundingly brave and yet confusingly meek; obviously good-hearted and yet hurtfully aloof; enviously observant and yet pathetically unaware. That was the charm of Sherlock Holmes, and that was why John Watson could not stop caring for him.

But John was perhaps most ashamed because last night Sherlock had obviously been grappling with some demons of his own and, really, the last thing John should have done in such a situation was to pick a fight.

It was mighty early - the sun was still fighting to rise and, in its struggle, it was painting the sky a ferocious orange. John knew that he should go back to bed; yet, when he closed his eyes next, he could clearly see his fingernails deep in Sherlock's wrist...Sherlock's pale skin turning sickeningly pink under the cruel weight of John's fingers. No...going back to sleep was out of the question.

With a sigh that could only be uttered by the heavy-hearted, the former army doctor turned onto his side and felt along the floor for his cell phone. He hadn't really expected Mary to contact him so soon after their row, but he was still disappointed to find that he had received no calls or texts during the night. Cursing under his breath, he heaved himself out of bed, placed his phone in the pocket of his cotton trousers, and headed downstairs.

However, as he entered the living room, he was greeted by a sight that both shocked him and made him smile in relief. Sherlock Holmes was sitting on the couch, but he was no longer donning dishevelled night clothes. Now he was wearing a freshly-pressed suit and form-fitting purple shirt, and he was closely inspecting a variety of newspapers, his eyes darting across the pages in concentration.

John cleared his throat. "Morning."

At the sound of John's voice, Sherlock glanced up from his studies. "Ah, you're up. Good. Here. I made you something," and he stretched forward to pick up some items from the table in front of him.

When the tall man stood up next, it was to present John with a steaming hot cup of tea and a plate of toast. A most pleasant and unusual surprise. Sherlock very rarely cooked and he certainly never made tea - those mundane tasks were left to John or Mrs. Hudson. Thus, John found his eyebrows raising in question.

Seeing the confusion on John's face, Sherlock became slightly flustered. His lips tensed and his eyes darted around the room. "For last night," he finally muttered and quickly returned to his studies.

John's mouth dropped open and his heart fluttered in delight. "You're apologizing? For last night?"

Sherlock's nose was already buried in a newspaper. "That's what friends do when they argue, is it not?"

John smiled then, a real genuine smile. "Yes...yes, that's right. That's right. Thank you. And I'm sorry too."

Sherlock did not look up from his reading, but he gave a curt nod and that was certainly more than enough to lift John's spirits tenfold.

After placing the tea and toast next to his favourite chair, the doctor moved towards the kitchen. He called over his shoulder to the mass of curls behind the newspaper, "Have you had breakfast?" He knew that his flatmate would answer in the negative, but he still felt compelled to ask, to show that he cared about the man's well-being.

"No."

"Will you eat a little yogurt? I bought some for us the other day and it's quite delicious," John ventured. Getting his flatmate to consume anything while on a case was virtually impossible but, again, he found himself compelled to try.

"No."

John rolled his eyes. "Have you had anything to drink this morning? Tea? Coffee? Water?"

"No."

God, how in the world could he care so deeply - so _fully_ - for such an annoying, ridiculous human being? "Well, let me get you something to drink at least."

Sherlock tut-tutted under his breath, but then looked up from the paper with a contemplative expression on his flawless face. "Coffee then. Black, two sugars."

John smiled back at the stubborn man. "Coffee. Perfect. I can do that."

He went to work making the beverage with a newfound spring in his step. Never had he put so much effort into making such a simple drink before - he chose the cleanest and brightest cup in the cupboard; made sure to pick the whitest, freshest-looking sugar in the sugar bowl; and blended the drink with precision and purpose. Indeed, as soon as Sherlock took a sip of the coffee, his sea blue eyes flashed with approval.

Satisfied, John settled into his favourite chair to enjoy his tea and toast, and to watch Sherlock work. God, Sherlock was at his most beautiful when he worked - the way his eyes simply radiated with energy, how you could practically see the mounds and mounds of data untangling and dancing through his head, the healthy pale glow that seemed to take hold of his skin, the sudden energy and youth that moved his long limbs and legs. Mary was pretty - she was undeniably pretty and as sweet and warm and comfortable as fresh maple syrup on pancakes. But Sherlock...Sherlock was a tempest, wild and fierce and hard to tame, and yet a masterpiece when it all came crashing together.

Sherlock skimmed through a few more newspapers and then slammed his hands down. He began to pace the room in frustration. "Nothing...absolutely nothing!"

John took another sip of his tea and waited for Sherlock's inevitable monologue. Sure enough, a few seconds later, the detective began to speak in a hurried, excited voice. He was quick to inform John about his findings at the crime scene, and John provided a more-than-attentive audience, leaning forward in his chair so as to catch every word.

Finally, the detective pointed to the papers spread all over the couch. "Though I have carefully read the newspaper on a daily basis since childhood, I could not recall reading anything about Dr. Smithe's unexpected disappearance. Thus, I spent the early morning re-reading all the newspapers that were printed around the time period when he would have disappeared. There is nothing, absolutely nothing about his sudden absence! It's as if he completely fell from memory." Sherlock wrung at his hair in agitation.

"And that bothers you?" John asked curiously.

Sherlock scowled and tumbled back down on the couch. "He was a solitary man...much like myself. He did not appear to have any close relationships with anyone...so there was nobody to miss him at an intimate level. But...but he was a well-regarded science scholar. His work was published in reputable journals. He was intelligent. So...how could no one miss him? How could he just fall from memory? How could his life be that...insignificant?"

Sherlock looked at John with bright, open eyes and suddenly seemed to grow self-conscious. However, that vulnerability only lasted for a second. When John blinked and looked at Sherlock next, the man's angular face was clothed in a neutral expression.

Before John could open his mouth, Sherlock was speaking again. "I expect you'll be spending the morning with Mary."

John felt a fresh wave of pain at these words and quickly grabbed his phone. After checking for any missed calls or texts, his face fell. "No. No, I don't think I will be," he muttered forlornly, and focused his stare on the deep colour of the leftover tea in his mug.

The detective watched the lachrymose doctor out of the corner of his eye and finally asked, "Care to come to King's College with me? I have some questions that need to be answered."

John looked up at his flatmate then with a newfound excitement, licking his lips in anticipation of the taste of adventure. "Oh god, I would love to."

Sherlock's mouth turned up in a faint smile. "Good. Get changed."


	6. The Sixth Chapter

_**EEEEEEKKKKK! I am beyond ecstatic! You all spoil me so, so, so much and I want you to know my complete gratitude. Thank you for the incredible support that has given this story over 2,700 views, 51 followers, 14 favouriters, and 23 reviews so far. Much love to BigChinGirl, johnsarmylady, EJ 12212012, tosinadekunle, and beemoh for your recent and incredibly motivating reviews. I love reading them, they warm my heart to pieces!**_

_**Just a note that any ideas here regarding King's College staff/programs are simply works of my imagination for the purposes of the story and are not reflections of actual King's College staff/programs. **_

_**Let the journey continue...**_

* * *

"And what brings you here, gentlemen?" asked Dr. Michelle Graham, head of Undergraduate Sciences at King's College. She was a stern-looking lady with walnut-coloured hair and tight, tense eyes.

The three figures were huddled around a desk in a quaint office with a lone window that looked out onto a garden.

"I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr. John Watson," Sherlock said in a voice that was warmer than usual as he gestured at the former military man. "We are here about Dr. Smithe," and, at that, the detective gave a sickeningly sweet smile. John could not help but look at the man with a mixture of admiration and disbelief; it was ridiculous how approachable the detective could be when he was acting, and yet how impossible it was for him to be cordial at any other time.

A look of confusion washed over Dr. Graham's face. "Dr. Smithe?"

"Yes, Dr. _Xavier_ Smithe," Sherlock offered, still smiling brightly.

The tense little lady continued to look confused for a moment as she muttered to herself. Finally, "Oh yes, of course, I had all but forgotten about Xavier. My, you look quite a lot like him."

Sherlock grimaced slightly, but quickly resumed his sugary expression.

"I am afraid he hasn't worked here in two years," Dr. Graham said sternly, crossing her hands on her desk.

"Yes, I know," Sherlock replied, his voice suddenly changing from warm to wavering. His beautiful sea blue eyes darted sadly towards John, who immediately took on a similar air of sorrow. "That's why John and I have come. You see, we were long-time friends of Xavier and recent events have given us reason to believe that he is..." At this, Sherlock stifled a sob. "...excuse me. We have reason to believe that he is...oh...dead...that he was actually...oh...murdered two years ago...it's all still largely a mystery and we were just hoping to get some answers."

Dr. Graham looked perplexed but, as was soon revealed, the mentioned death and killing of the professor was not the reason for her perplexity. "Dr. Smithe had friends?" she asked sharply, her eyebrows raising in skepticism.

John could have sworn that a genuine look of hurt rippled through the detective's eyes then. "Oh...well, John and I were friends with Xavier since childhood but we hadn't seen him in years, though we used to talk on the phone once in awhile. He said he so loved working here."

Dr. Graham practically snorted at the statement. "Did he tell you that? Well, he was lying. He hated it here, despised it. Thought he was above it. Wanted to teach somewhere like Oxford or Cambridge. He was always belittling our staff, questioning their intellectual abilities. He was a very arrogant man, Xavier was. Most unpleasant to be around. But he was brilliant and, for that, we were glad to have him as a faculty member."

John spoke up then. "Well, if he was belittling staff members, there must have been a lot of people here who disliked him."

Dr. Graham glanced at the garden outside her window before replying. "Everyone hated him and admired him at the same time. As I said, Dr. Watson, he was brilliant - I am sure you and Mr. Holmes are well aware of that though, of course. And how could one not admire him for his brilliance? But yes, people here despised him too. He was very arrogant, as I said - and you must have noticed that as well over the course of your friendship. He was also very cold...very cold towards people's feelings...sometimes he seemed downright heartless."

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his seat and, when John looked over, he was surprised to see that the detective was even whiter than usual. There were words, angry words, ricocheting against the walls of Sherlock's mind...words that had been uttered by loyal, dependable John...words that the detective could not seem to suppress. _You are cold, Sherlock. Sod off, you arrogant git. _The detective cleared his throat but, when he spoke, his voice was shaky and the sweat that had sprung up on his forehead was surely not an act. "Yes...yes, Xavier was brilliant, and his work was highly received. His work was his life, really. Did people not think it strange, then, when he suddenly disappeared? Was his presence not missed?"

Dr. Graham gave the curly-haired man a half-smile, half-smirk. "Are you suggesting that one of our faculty killed your friend, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock leaned forward in his chair. "Did they?"

The lady in front of him laughed. "He was a despicable man. I can't blame someone for wanting to kill him, but I highly doubt anyone here did it, though one can never be sure, can they?"

Suddenly, Sherlock's warm performance cracked down the middle and his eyes turned hard and calculating. _You are cold, Sherlock. __Sod off, you arrogant git. _If only those words would stop tormenting him. His jaw clenched. "One can be sure of many things, Dr. Graham. You, as a scholar of science, should know this all too well. For instance, I am sure that you have been divorced twice, and that it was your husband who left you both times because you failed to properly satisfy him in bed. I am also sure that you are currently having a little romance with the head of the English Department, but where you think that you are his one and only, he is seeing multiple women behind your back. How do I know this? It's all science, Dr. Graham, the science of deduction. For instance, the markings on your wedding ring finger indicate - "

"That's enough, Sherlock," John's voice came, tight and harsh, and his hand moved gently but sternly onto the detective's chest.

At that, the detective straightened in his chair, his face and body relaxing to John's touch.

"Who are you?" Dr. Graham asked sharply, eyeing the curly-haired man intently.

"I'm sorry, I have been out of line. I am just someone who wants to find out what happened to a dear friend," Sherlock replied quietly.

Finally, her eyes still carefully digesting Sherlock's face, Dr. Graham slowly said, "Forgive me, Mr. Holmes. I know that you must be grieving for your friend and that you probably do not want to hear such harsh words as I have said concerning him. Yet if I may be frank. Yes, he was brilliant but, as I have just told you, he treated everyone here horribly. He was insulting, he was unrelenting, he was self-righteous, and there are many hard-working, well-deserving people fighting for the type of steady teaching position he had. So yes, forgive me, but it was easy not to miss him, it was easy to replace him. And yes, it may be argued that someone killed him for his teaching position but, as I said, I highly doubt anyone here would do such a thing. You see, just before he disappeared, he turned in his letter of resignation and he made sure that everyone knew he had accepted a teaching job overseas."

John could see the cogs and bolts shifting and grinding in Sherlock's brain.

After a moment, Dr. Graham spoke again. "Gentlemen, I beg your pardon for the less than pleasant things I have said about Xavier. But I am afraid that the Xavier I knew was different from the one you did. As I said earlier, I never would have guessed that he had any friends. The only person who seemed to care for him was Elizabeth, but I don't think I would ever consider her a friend of his."

"And who is this Elizabeth?" Sherlock questioned, his eyebrows raising.

"She was his flatmate and, for whatever ridiculous reason, she was madly in love with him. Unrequited, of course," Dr. Graham said.

"Really?" Sherlock whispered, his eyes glowing with intrigue at this pronouncement of love. "Do you happen to know where she lives?"

Dr. Graham shrugged. "No, I'm afraid not, but she may still live in the flat she shared with Xavier. He always said she was sentimental about the place - he couldn't fathom why. I can give you the address if you would like."

Sherlock nodded and rose to stand. "Yes, please." He watched with hawk-like eyes as she scrawled the address onto a scrap of paper and, upon receiving the paper, he gave the lady an endearing smile. "Thank you, Dr. Graham, you have been most helpful. Come along, John."

With that, John stood up, wished the lady a good day, and followed his friend to the door.

But just as they were about to make their escape into the light of the hallway, the detective swung back around, his long dark coat dancing around his legs. "Oh, Dr. Graham. Just one more question. Does anyone here have access to radium powder?"

"Yes, any faculty member in Sciences, as well as all of our graduate students," Dr. Graham replied. Sherlock's mouth twitched into an excited half-smile and suddenly Dr. Graham's eyes lit up with recognition. By the time the poor lady proclaimed, "Wait! Sherlock Holmes! I knew your name was familiar. You are that man with the deer-stalker who solves crimes! I read about you in the paper," he was rushing down the hallway pulling John along behind him.

John practically giggled with excitement. "So you think it was one of the staff members who hated him so much that killed him?"

Sherlock frowned down at the doctor. "No John, not at all."

The former army man looked consternated. "But it makes sense. He undermined his colleagues work, naturally that'll make some people bitter - "

Sherlock's eyes filled with deep, unreadable emotions then, and he watched John with intensity as he said, "Yes, doctor, but bitterness is a paralytic. Love, however, is a much more vicious motivator."


	7. The Seventh Chapter

**_Hi everyone! Not going to lie, I started writing this fanfic __with the idea that it would serve as a quick, relaxing break from my other fanfics. But seriously, it has taken on a life of its own and I am thoroughly addicted to writing it now! That is because of your amazing, unwavering, incredibly heart-warming support. As always, the biggest thank you!_**

**_Just a heads up that this chapter features bits from William Shakespeare's_ Hamlet,_ which is one of my absolute all-time favourite plays. My apologies to anyone who is unfamiliar with the play - I have tried to present it in as accessible a way as possible._**

**_Oh, and if you haven't checked out the new _Hobbit: Desolation of Smaug_ trailer featuring Smaug the dragon (which, if you haven't yet, shame on you!), DO IT...don't be shy! :P_**

**_With much love, let's continue..._**

* * *

_Alexander died, Alexander was buried, __Alexander  
__returneth to dust, the dust is earth, of __earth we make  
__loam, __and why of that loam whereto he __was converted  
__might they not stop a beer-barrel?  
__Imperious Caesar, dead and turned to clay,  
__Might stop a hole to keep the wind away.  
__O, that that earth which kept the world in awe  
__Should patch a wall t'expel the water's flaw!  
__-William Shakespeare,_ Hamlet, _5.1.198-205._

As soon as they exited King's College, Sherlock eagerly hailed a taxi. Then, he just as eagerly gave the driver the address that Dr. Graham had scrawled on the scrap of paper.

However, a couple of minutes into the ride, John could not help but notice that his flatmate was unsettled - and not in the anxiously excited way that was customary during case-solving. No; this was a deep, brooding type of unsettledness, and it made the doctor very uneasy indeed.

Hesitantly, he cleared his throat and turned to his dark-haired friend. "I know there is probably no point in asking, but is there something on your mind?"

"There is always something going on in anyone's mind at all times. The question is whether it is an interesting something or a superficial, dull something," Sherlock said in an annoyingly sardonic tone.

"Yes, fine, be a sarcastic prat then," John spluttered exasperatedly. "You know perfectly well what I mean. Is something _bothering_ you?"

The consulting detective was silent for a long time, sucking at his bottom lip as if fighting the urge to speak. But John was patient (as any good doctor is) and, finally, _finally,_ Sherlock spoke.

"I was just reflecting on something Dr. Graham said about the victim. But it's not pertinent to the case so it is not worth my time to dwell on it - "

"You _are_ dwelling on it, though. You have been brooding ever since we got into the car."

Sherlock gave John a sideways glance and muttered in a snarky voice, "Bravo, doctor, a sound observation, you should be proud." But then he took a profound breath (which sent his curls bouncing) and asked in a gentler tone, "Was there anything Dr. Graham said about the victim that reminded you of someone you know?"

John furrowed his eyebrows in concentration as he thought back on the conversation that had just occurred in the small office. "Uh…no, not really. I mean, she did say that he looked like you. Did he?"

"Yes," Sherlock responded quietly.

Of course, the good doctor had no idea just _how much_ Xavier had looked like Sherlock but, nevertheless, John found himself titillated by this idea. And, if truth be told, his titillation slightly horrified him - after all, it didn't seem quite right to be sexually stimulated over a man who was not only dead, but who had been murdered. Nope, that didn't seem quite right at all and, therefore, John's titillation quickly evolved into feelings of warm and giddy guilt.

Just then, Sherlock interrupted the doctor's thoughts. "She said that he was cold and arrogant."

At that, the deep wrinkles on John's forehead intensified. He watched his curly-haired friend in bewilderment. "Yes, she did say that. She didn't really have any kind things to say about him. But I don't see how that would remind me of anyone I kn - "

Sherlock was staring out the windshield now, unblinking and tense. He cut his friend off with a curt, _"You_ said _I_ was cold and arrogant. Last night."

John's eyes softened in a mixture of understanding, shame, and fondness. "Oh Sherlock, that is different. That is _totally_ different - "

Hearing these words made Sherlock's heart throb a little - a sensation that was both unpleasant and endearing. _I don't understand. Why is it different, John?_ He was about to ask John to expand on his statement when the shorter man's phone rang. Upon looking at the screen, John's face brightened significantly and he answered the call with a breathless, "Mary. Hello."

Sherlock stifled a groan and preceded to bite at his lower lip as he listened.

"How are you?...You do?...Well yes, of course…It's one of my favourite plays...Well, that sounds wonderful...Cumberwhat?...I've never heard of him...Oh, that is a rather derogatory term, isn't it?...Yes, Cumbercollective would be better, I suppose...Yes, I will be there as soon as possible…That sounds great…See you soon, Mary...Bye."

As John ended the call with a newfound youthfulness, Sherlock stared at his blogger...and where the poor detective's heart had been throbbing only seconds earlier, it now felt like someone was cutting it slowly and carefully with the pliable fingers of a fork - the sensation was painful as hell, but numbing and dull at the same time.

John's face all but glowed. "That was Mary. She has bought two tickets to see today's matinee performance of _Hamlet, _and she has asked me to join her. It's starring some up and coming actor who has a very complicated name…Benedict Cumberbatch or something. Mary thinks that he is going to be Britain's next big talent. Apparently, he is in some detective show on BBC...she told me the name of it but I can't recall what it is at the moment. You'll find this amusing...Mary says that he is big with the ladies and that there's a group of women who call themselves the Cumberbitches or some other ridiculous name - "

"Never heard of him. I don't see how he is of any relevance to my work. Detective shows are mundane and overly simplistic. Dull," Sherlock muttered. Then, after a pause, "So I suppose you won't be assisting me in finding and questioning Elizabeth, then?" Sherlock asked in a quiet but steady voice as he tried to look emotionally neutral; but the way his bottom lip twitched revealed his disappointment. At the sight, John felt a wave of guilt wash over him...yet...no, he _shouldn't_ feel guilty...he had gone to King's College with Sherlock and now it was time to make amends with Mary.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. You know I would love to any other time, it's just Mary and I had such a big fight last night and I am so ecstatic that she is giving me another chance." A very large smile covered the doctor's face then. "She really is a wonderful woman. Besides, you and I both know that you really don't need me to help you solve the case. If anything, I would be in the way, thinking silly things and being annoying - "

Sherlock wanted to say that no, John could never be annoying (even though, he really could be _very, very_ annoying - only Sherlock didn't care all that much when John was annoying - actually, for whatever idiotic reason, he found it rather endearing), but he remained silent and looked out the window of the cab.

"Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him, Horatio," John whispered then.

"What's that?" Sherlock asked irritably.

"Oh come on, Sherlock, you must have read _Hamlet._ You know the gravedigger scene? They are clearing out some of the old graves and Hamlet learns that one of the skulls they dig up was once the head of his old court jester, Yorick?"

Sherlock grunted. "I likely read it in university but, if I did, I have since deleted it."

"Oh, come on Sherlock, it's _Shakespeare!_ You can't just delete Shakespeare!"

Sherlock grunted again. "Yes, I can and I _have._ He was far too focused on passion and other equally irrational phenomena."

John laughed at that. "Says the man who appreciates the genius of Bach, Beethoven, and Mozart."

When Sherlock raised an eyebrow, the shorter man continued, "You're telling me that music does not reflect passion? When you're angry, you pick up your violin and you play a cacophony of noise. When you're deep in contemplation, you play something methodical. When you're at peace, you play something tranquil."

"There is science behind music, John," Sherlock snapped. "Any emotions that you associate with a particular piece are simply of your own making."

"And there is science behind poetry, Sherlock. Poetry incorporates formulas and equations. Shakespeare often used iambic pentameter in his plays."

Sherlock scowled and resumed looking out the window at the passing streets.

At that, John huffed; yet he could not help but smile at how silly his friend was. "You're no fun." He reclined his head back on his seat. "Anyway, I have always enjoyed Shakespeare."

"Yes, but you have always been irrational," Sherlock sneered.

John didn't even flinch at his flatmate's words. Instead, he began to recite in an irritatingly serene voice, "We fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots. Your fat king and your lean beggar is but variable service, two dishes but to one table. That's the end...A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm."

"What are you going on about this time?" Sherlock drawled irritatedly.

"Another bit from _Hamlet._ I remember when I first read that scene, it sent chills down my spine."

Sherlock rolled those big beautiful eyes of his. "Honestly, John - "

"No, really, Sherlock. It makes you think about life, I mean _really _think about life, you know? About how we all meet the same end, no matter how great or how small we are...we all turn to dust...makes life seem rather insignificant, doesn't it?"

"That is why it is irrational to be so sentimental," Sherlock grumbled.

John chuckled then and said contemplatively, "Yeah, that's true enough...but still, it is a little frightening. I mean, come on Sherlock, someone with your massive intellect will end up the same as some blundering idiot and no one will be the wiser. No one will be able to tell the two of you apart when you're dust. Same with me. No one will know I was a doctor. I will look just the same as every other speck of dirt." John's eyes were far away and he seemed deep in reflection. "Hamlet sees all that remains of Yorick and realizes just how insignificant each of our lives is...because, in the end, Yorick, the man who made him laugh as a child, is nothing more than an unidentifiable skull. Yorick has no more identity."

"That's absurd, John. There are many identifying factors that one can observe from a skull. Ethnicity, approximate age at time of death, former injuries - " Sherlock spat.

"Yes, of course. But I mean the _soul_ of a person, Sherlock. The _soul_ of a person cannot be read in a skull."

Sherlock snorted but John continued, "And yes, perhaps you can rattle off observations about the skull on our mantelpiece. But do you know whose skull that belonged to? Do you know what their name was?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but quickly closed it again. He glowered and crossed his arms in front of him in a protective way, feeling very uncomfortable indeed. Suddenly, he was acutely aware of the fact that his stomach was utterly empty and the coffee that John had made him consume earlier was tumbling uneasily and unpleasantly inside him. By this time, they were pulling up in front of the flat where Dr. Xavier Smithe had once resided and Sherlock was more than happy for some fresh air.

"Well, I will see you later then?" John asked. And, though his face was cheerful, his voice sounded slightly flat.

"Obviously," Sherlock mumbled as he paid his fare.

And then, Sherlock was slamming the car door shut, John was instructing the cab driver where to go next, and the cab was off with a squeal of tires against the pavement.

As the cab drove away, Sherlock stood there and watched John travel into the distance. And John watched Sherlock's tall, slender, beautiful form...the detective was disappearing, disappearing, disappearing...nothing more than a dot of dust...until, finally, the detective was gone from sight.

* * *

**_Just a note, the version of_ Hamlet_ that I used for this chapter is the Arden Shakespeare 2006 edition edited by Ann Thompson and Neil Taylor. If you are looking for a superb copy of_ Hamlet,_ I highly recommend this one (or, really, if you are looking for any superb editions of Shakespeare's works, Arden Shakespeare is the way to go; the editorial notes are always fantastic and the plays are very much kept in their true form as much as any Shakespeare play can be). Here are the citations (aside from the top passage, because it has already been cited):_**

**_"Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him, Horatio." 5.1.174._**

**_"We fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots. Your fat king and your lean beggar is but variable service, two dishes but to one table. That's the end...A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm." 4.3.21-27._**


	8. The Eighth Chapter

_**This story is at close to 5,000 views, and currently has 22 favouriters, 72 followers, and 40 reviews. I never ever in my wildest dreams would have expected such an outpouring of interest and support. I cannot say thank you enough. **_

_**A special shout-out to WL Chastain, Timey-Wimey Somn-Like Lass, BenedictedCumberbabe221, EJ 12212012, AiLoveS, Teshka, johnsarmylady, TopHatsandFezzes, tosinadekunle, and beemoh for your recent reviews, comments, and words of love and inspiration. OOXX!  
**_

* * *

As the cab that carried John away turned a corner and vanished from sight, Sherlock moved his gaze toward the brick building behind him. With a sigh, he walked up to the door of the flat; it was covered in crawling ivy. He observed the twists and turns of the plant for a moment as he tried to clear his mind of the conversation that had taken place in the cab. Finally, he rang the doorbell and stood back on his heels, waiting. The air carried a frigid chill and, each time he exhaled, puffs of mist escaped his mouth and tickled his face.

Soon, he heard light footsteps approaching from within the flat and he was not surprised when, moments later, a woman opened the door. His eyes moved from the top of her head to the tips of her toes in a matter of seconds. She was slender but her muscles were long, lean, and strong. Her shoulder-length hair was down, but specks of hairspray around her scalp and an indent in her auburn waves indicated that it had recently been styled up and away from the face. Her knees and feet were turned out, her toenails were bruised, and her toes were covered in blisters. _Ballet dancer - obvious._ The detective's lips turned up in a smirk.

"May I help you?" the dancer asked.

"Elizabeth?"

The auburn-haired woman nodded before repeating her original question, her eyes digesting the detective's face with wonder.

Sherlock smiled cordially. "I'm here about Xavier Smithe. It's my understanding he used to live here."

At these words, the poor woman looked utterly bewildered. "Yes, he did, but I'm afraid I haven't seen him in two years."

Sherlock moved forward a step before saying gently, "Xavier disappeared two years ago because he was murdered."

Elizabeth turned horribly pale at that, and her small hands moved to her chest in distress.

The consulting detective glanced at her hands before giving her a sympathetic look, his eyes melting softly. "I am working with New Scotland Yard right now - "

"You - " Elizabeth interrupted in a shaky voice. " - you're Sherlock Holmes, aren't you? People come to you with a mystery that needs solving, and you figure it out. I saw you on the telly, and I thought you looked so much like Xavier. "

Sherlock flinched inwardly at that statement and, since the woman knew who he was (with John's idiotic blog spiking the media's curiosity, the detective was really getting far too much unwanted attention), he dropped his mask of cordiality. His face took on a look of impatience and austerity as he said in a hard voice, "Yes. Now I am rather tired of standing in the cold, so let me in and we will discuss Xavier from there. "

Elizabeth watched him with big eyes before moving away from the door and, with a brisk step, the curly-haired man entered the warmth of the flat.

A few minutes later, he and Elizabeth were sitting across from one another in the living room. A healthy fire crackled in the hearth nearby.

Silent tears were tumbling down the woman's face, and Sherlock found himself eerily comforted by her show of care and sadness for the deceased man. It was a refreshing change from the seeming indifference that had plagued the victim thus far.

The detective leaned in, and said in a voice far more quiet and tender than usual, "You loved Xavier."

Elizabeth laughed through her tears. "Yes, I did...once." There was a long pause as the woman looked pathetically at her hands. "Have you ever been in love, Mr. Holmes?"

It was difficult to throw the detective off-guard, but that question certainly did. Sherlock sat up and cleared his throat, surprised to find that his heart was beginning to speed up. "No," he responded quickly.

Elizabeth gave a sad smile and shook her head. "Well then, perhaps you won't understand what I mean when I say that love can make you foolish."

Sherlock's expression became sharp and indignant then. "No, I understand completely. Love is an unstable emotion that gets in the way of reason - "

The woman half-chuckled, half-groaned as she interrupted. "You sound so much like Xavier. God, I adored him. But when I told him that, he practically sneered at me. He kept on saying that anyone who loved was an idiot, that love made people act irrationally. He was insulting and snide and conceited and I could tell that I annoyed him. He spent most of his time in his room...he really did not want to be around me...but...but still I was foolish enough to keep on loving him. I couldn't help it. He was so brilliant. His mind...it...it dazzled me...it intrigued me. He was so smart and he was so cruel."

More tears tumbled down her cheeks and Sherlock looked away, suddenly uneasy. Where he had once thought the warmth of the fire comforting, he now found it unbearably hot.

He glanced around the small flat, his eyes falling on tables, chairs, a bookshelf. The kitchen and the living area were really one big room, and off to the side was a narrow hallway.

At the corner of the living room was a baby grand piano. The instrument had been treated with the finest of care; it was spotless, save for an area by the music stand where a dull circle shaped like the bottom of a cup had stained the wood. The piano was also quite dusty, indicating that it had not been touched in awhile.

Then his gaze fell to the floor of the living room. It was wooden and freshly polished; beautiful and unscratched save for two areas by a queen-sized bed where the floor dipped in barely noticeable circles and the colour of the wood was slightly lighter. The queen-sized bed was unmade, the comforter in a messy pile at the edge of the mattress.

Next, he looked down the hallway to find that there were two more rooms in the flat: a bathroom and, behind that, a bedroom.

When the detective's gaze flickered back to the dancer's face, she had wiped her tears and was breathing steadier.

"The piano belonged to Xavier," Sherlock said, voice low.

"Yes," Elizabeth replied. "About a month after he disappeared, I sold his things...my job doesn't pay well and I need all the help I can get. But I couldn't bear to part with the piano. He played it so beautifully...and he seemed almost human in those moments. I loved listening to Ryan and him create music together." A cheerful nostalgic look was now on her face.

"Ryan?" the detective asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, Ryan. I've known him for many years. He is an accompanist for my ballet classes, that's how we met...he plays the flute. Xavier didn't have friends, really, but he tolerated Ryan more than he did most people."

"Ryan is also your current flatmate, and your boyfriend," Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

Elizabeth looked surprised, mildly amused, and slightly horrified. "The telly wasn't lying, you really are freakishly bright. How did you guess?"

"I didn't guess, I observed," the detective drawled. "You said yourself that your job does not pay well and that you need all the financial aid you can get, so it only makes sense that you would find a new flatmate once it was evident Xavier was not returning. The books on your bookshelf are predominantly relating to the flute - books about flute music, the history of the flute, and the world's best flute players - so your flatmate is obviously a flautist. Ryan it is, then. Secondly, the queen-sized bed in the corner. There are dips made by bodies on both sides of the mattress, so two people have clearly been sleeping in it. You said earlier that Xavier kept to his room and, since there is only one bedroom in this flat, the bedroom was his, while you slept out here - obviously. This is your bed, then, and so the dips in the bed were made by you and a lover. Thirdly, the floor has been recently polished so it is easy to see where dirt has been made by foot traffic. There has been foot traffic through this area and to the bathroom, but there is no dirt going back towards the bedroom which would indicate that your flatmate has not been returning to their room. Why? It is your flatmate who has been sharing your bed."

"Yes," the woman whispered in awe. "Yes...yes, you're right. Ryan and I started dating about a month before Xavier disappeared, though Ryan came by the flat for several months before then to meet with Xavier. Ryan was always into the sciences, but he was dreadfully intimidated by them at the same time. When he heard that my flatmate was a science professor, he immediately wanted to meet him. And when Xavier heard that Ryan was a musician, he was equally intrigued. They made a deal. Ryan would teach Xavier to play the flute, and Xavier would take Ryan to the university lab to show him experiments. Every Sunday evening, Ryan would come over to teach Xavier. They would always end their lesson by putting on a little show for me, Xavier playing the piano and Ryan playing the flute...it was very lovely. Xavier really liked to show off, you know? And then, every Monday, Xavier took Ryan to the lab at the university and they did experiments. They weren't friends, really, but Xavier loved music and so he tolerated Ryan," Elizabeth said in a slightly flustered voice.

Sherlock stood, then, and moved to the piano. "Here," he pointed at the circular stain on the wood. "What is this from? A cup?"

"Yes, Xavier used to drink a cup of chocolate milk when he played the piano. He said it stimulated his brain," Elizabeth answered with a soft smile.

"Where'd he get the chocolate milk?"

"I made it for him with milk and powder," Elizabeth said, looking slightly embarrassed. "He was lactose intolerant so we had to buy special milk. It didn't come in chocolate, only in white, so I always bought chocolate powder and mixed it in. He was too lazy to make it himself, but I knew how much he liked it. I'd always make it for him whenever I heard him playing." After a pause, "At first, it really bothered Ryan that I took the effort to do it, but eventually he didn't seem to mind anymore."

Sherlock was pacing the room now. "Did anyone else drink this chocolate powder?"

"No, just Xavier. But it lasts a very long time, it has a very long shelf life, so I kept some. I figured if we had guests come over, I could make them hot cocoa or something...not that we ever have had guests but - "

"So you still have some of the powder?" the detective asked sharply.

"Yes."

"May I take it, please?"

Elizabeth looked puzzled by the question, but she nodded. "Sure. I really don't have anymore use for it. Here, let me get it for you."

She rose from her chair and walked over to a kitchen cupboard where she promptly pulled down a metal container. As soon as she handed the container to the detective, he opened the lid and peered at the contents with glowing eyes as he asked, "Didn't you think it strange when Xavier disappeared?"

"Not really." Elizabeth sat back down in her chair. "He was always very solitary and I knew that he had accepted a job overseas so...you know...I just assumed that he had moved and didn't want to bother transporting all of his goods. He wasn't really the type to say good bye - "

Sherlock interrupted her. "How soon after Xavier's disappearance did Ryan move in?"

"When it was obvious that Xavier wasn't coming back, so after about a month. I couldn't manage the rent on my own and we were dating, so it made sense."

The detective's fingers were once again steepled under his chin. "What did Ryan say about Xavier's disappearance?"

"Not much. He was sad the trips to the lab had to end, but he knew that Xavier was a solitary type of person so I guess he wasn't surprised that I didn't receive a good bye," Elizabeth said somewhat forlornly.

"May I speak with Ryan?"

Elizabeth shook her head. "I'm afraid that he is out of town until tomorrow afternoon..."

"Ah, how convenient," Sherlock muttered, watching the woman in front of him with an intense stare. "Judging by the state of your hands, you shoot a gun on a regular basis."

"Yes," Elizabeth said truthfully, blushing slightly. "I go to the shooting range. I find it helps my concentration skills, and being able to concentrate is key as a dancer. I actually got Ryan into it too. He goes with me now, he finds it relaxing."

"I see," Sherlock replied, a small smile flashing across his plump lips.

The woman before him had a silly grin on her face now. "He's really a wonderful guy, Ryan. I am so much happier now that I am with him. He told me that he had initially been afraid to say he was interested in me because of how much I adored Xavier." She giggled foolishly and sadly. "I wasted all those months lusting for someone who would never want to be with me...and...I just wish that Ryan had told me how he felt sooner." She looked up at Sherlock with eager eyes then. "I know you say you have never been in love, Mr. Holmes but, if you ever _do_ fall in love with someone, _please_ don't hesitate to tell them. You may say that love makes us act irrationally, and maybe it does. But it is the most wonderful feeling to be in love. So if you ever find that you are, you _need_ to tell that special someone because...you don't want to lose them...you don't want them to find someone else..."

Sherlock pulled at the collar of his shirt. The heat of the fire was horridly unpleasant. It felt like it was practically burning through his clothing. His skin itched and ached and throbbed, his clothing ripped into his flesh painfully, and his throat was pasty and dry. He coughed heavily and, when he inhaled next, it felt like his tonsils were collapsing. He stood quickly, lunged at his scarf and coat, and was at the door in a matter of seconds. He barely turned to the auburn-haired girl as he croaked out a frantic, "I need to go now."

And then he was gone.

* * *

As soon as Sherlock returned to 221B Baker Street, he dumped his unworn scarf and coat on the floor and rushed into his room. His palms were seeped in sweat, and he struggled desperately to unbutton his shirt and to wiggle his legs out of his trousers and pants. He was caked in a sticky, sickening sweat from head to toe and, once he discarded his clothes and saw his pale, clammy reflection, he knew he had to take a shower.

When the lukewarm water hit his skin, he practically purred in relief. He reached for a bar of soap and rapidly scrubbed his pale arms and legs - but, though the mixture of soap and water ripped the sweat from his body and cleansed his skin, his mind was still in a panic. And this was a panic that the healing powers of water could not clean.

His mind was racing, reeling, in overdrive. And not because of the case. Not at all. Frankly, he considered the case to be basically solved. He was 99.9% positive of who the murderer was, and he was 99.9% positive of how and why the murder had occurred - but, of course, he had to be 100% certain. And it would be very simple, really, to gain that extra 0.1%. The final steps would be 1) to visit the local shooting range to study the bullets of the guns and 2) to go to St. Bart's, compare the bullets from the guns at the shooting range to the bullet embedded in the victim's neck, test the victim's body for radium poisoning, and examine the chocolate powder retrieved at Elizabeth's flat. All of that could be achieved in a matter of hours and that is precisely where Sherlock's mind should have been.

But, instead, the detective's mind was absorbed with a very different thought, and that thought was Dr. John Watson. Sherlock kept hearing John's words in the cab. _But I mean the soul of a person...The soul of a person cannot be read in a skull. _Sherlock kept seeing John's face: the deep wrinkles on his forehead, the tender fire that burned in his eyes, the softness of his hair. John, John, John.

With a moan, Sherlock jumped out of the shower, dried himself in a fury, threw the towel violently on the bathroom floor, and ran back to his room. He pulled on his night clothes hastily and, in his mad state, he completely and utterly forgot that he really should wear pants underneath his trousers. In fact, he was in such a fluster that he could barely pull his cotton trousers up his legs and, as he flew from his room, they hung precariously low and loose on his hips.

His eyes were smouldering blue, green, gold, and grey, and they were focused on only one thing: the skull on the mantelpiece. He gritted his teeth as he grabbed at it and then he was flopping into a kitchen chair, hands caressing the bone, trousers sliding down with his mind as he slipped into the depths of his mental palace.

_If you ever do fall in love with someone, please don't hesitate to tell them. You don't want to lose them. You don't want them to find someone else._

_Love is an unstable emotion that gets in the way of reason._

_Love can make you foolish. _

_I will not make the mistake of caring. Don't you see that it is a disadvantage?_

* * *

**_Heads up that the next chapter will feature...drumroll...the one, the only, the absolutely lovely CUMBERBUM! So, for those of you who are a part of the Cumbercollective, something to look forward to...you're welcome. :) _**


	9. The Ninth Chapter

_**As promised, this chapter is seeping with the ever-delicious Cumberbum! As a result, I have changed the rating of this story to M just to be safe. Please be aware that this chapter has a different tone from previous ones in that it is more sexual. I apologize if any of you do not like this (there will not be many chapters like this). However, this chapter unexpectedly came to me and I was so excited that I just had to write it. Plus, I thought that it was a refreshing break from the super angsty tone that has been prevalent throughout the story thus far (though there is still angsty feels in this one too). **_

_**Also, just letting you know it is very likely that I will not be updating this story for a couple of days. I have sorely neglected my other fanfics and want to give them some love too, but I will be back as soon as I possibly can. **_

_**As always, many thanks to all of you who have been so amazingly supportive. A special shout out to EJ 12212012, beemoh, tosinadekunle, lovePEOPLEandCOWBOY, and Teshka for your recent reviews. A final thanks to BlackPanther1987 for your suggestion for this chapter, it is awesome and I have added it in. :)**_

* * *

John walked back to Baker Street with a spring in his step and a grin on his face. His time with Mary had been lovely, absolutely lovely. The play was wonderful (Benedict Cumberbatch had proven a most excellent choice for Hamlet), dinner afterwards was wonderful, Mary was wonderful, it was all just _wonderful._

John had no idea how he had gotten so lucky. Not many women would have forgiven so easily for his horrible mistake the other night. But Mary...she was different...she was special. As soon as they met outside the theatre, she had rushed forward to embrace the doctor and to apologize for their row. She went on to say that she understood how important Sherlock was to John. What's more, she emphasized that she respected John's relationship with the detective, and made it known she wanted to be a support to the men, someone who brought their friendship together rather than pulled it apart.

And right after she uttered these compassionate, amazing, sweet sweet _sweet_ words, John knew that he could fall in love with this woman. She was quite different from Sherlock. Unlike the detective, she was stable, steady, reliable, and dependable - and John realized that this was not a bad thing. In fact, it was something that would balance the electrifying friendship and partnership he and his flatmate shared. So John Watson leaned in and kissed Mary Morstan's happy lips and, for those few beautiful seconds, all of the world was unified in harmony and bliss - from the frigid corners of the arctic to the hottest edges of the tropics.

His weathered hands and her delicate fingers stayed intertwined for the rest of the day - during the performance, as they walked to dinner, and even as they sipped their wine and enjoyed their food. John found himself moaning when they reached Mary's front door and it was time to say goodbye. But his moan of disappointment turned into a moan of pleasure when the pretty little woman leaned forward and grabbed his lips in a rough, heavy kiss.

Thus, as the former army doctor entered the living room of 221B, his thoughts were on Mary and only Mary. He could smell her, he could taste her, he could feel her gentle touch in his hand still, and all he could see was...Sherlock. SHERLOCK! Suddenly, John stopped short, his heart catching in his throat and threatening to choke him to death as it increased to a terrifying, powerful speed - for right in front of him was the most dizzying, beautiful, enticing, and absolutely tantalizing, tormenting sight that he had ever laid eyes on.

The curly-haired consulting detective was sitting in the kitchen, completely absent to the sights and sounds of Baker Street. He was deep in his mind palace, his full lips slightly parted, his eyes closed, his long eyelashes falling serenely against his porcelain skin, his slender fingers steepled elegantly under his sharp chin. The skull from the mantelpiece was peacefully watching from the kitchen table.

Sherlock's face was the epitome of grace and beauty and, yet, that is not what had John's attention. No. John's attention was in a much more southern region, and the poor doctor's face was frozen in a look of pain, lust, desire, and sheer horror. The detective was wearing clothes. He was _definitely_ wearing clothes. It's just, he was not wearing them with the care that he usually did. For someone who claimed that his body was merely transport for his mind, Sherlock certainly took great pride in his appearance. He only wore the finest, most expensive clothing, and he always made sure that everything was well-pressed, lint-free, and perfectly in place. Heck, even when the man chose to wear nothing but a bed sheet (which happened more often than you might expect), he was picky about the fabric and somehow managed to drape the sheet gracefully and modestly around his slender body. But the man currently sitting at the kitchen table had very clearly thrown these clothes (a light grey nightshirt and royal blue cotton trousers) on in haste. Especially the trousers, which were barely on his bony hips and hardly left anything to the imagination. There on the kitchen chair for all the flat to see was a very exposed arse...and it belonged to Sherlock Holmes.

John told himself to stop looking - it was not right for him to stare. No, he really should tell Sherlock. After all, what if Mrs. Hudson came in? She often stopped by to see how the two men were doing or to bring by some cooking, and Sherlock would likely be mortified if she witnessed him in such a state. Yes, John decided that the right thing to do would be to gently tell Sherlock to pull his trousers up a bit. But as he walked forward and witnessed the look of pure concentration on the detective's face, the way those luscious brown curls fell across his forehead, that flawless milky skin, and...oh dear god...those plump, plump arse cheeks (_Damn it, John! Don't look at them! Stop!_), he thought better of it. After all, it wasn't right to disturb the man when he was so deep into his mind palace. No, the _best_ thing to do would be to leave the detective alone and walk away. John should just go to his room and act like he had not seen any of this. Yes, that was the _best _option. _  
_

And with that, the doctor made a sharp turn and headed for the stairs leading to his bedroom. But as his hand touched the banister and he made to ascend, he found himself looking back for one last peek. Damn it all to Hell, Sherlock Holmes was truly the most beautiful creature on the face of this earth. Those very plump, very pale, and infuriatingly firm arse cheeks...and that very dark crevice of an arse crack travelling in a perfect line down the middle of that porcelain skin. Suddenly, John wanted his tongue to journey down that deep crevice, to explore the mysteries that lay there - the tastes, the sights, the sounds. Oh how John longed to open that crevice, to stretch it to its breaking point and discover the forbidden, sacred cave within. The idea of entering Sherlock sent John's stomach tumbling in hysterical pleasure - and John was gone, his blood rushing to his crotch, his knees giving way underneath him, everything around him blurring except for Sherlock bloody Holmes and his stupid, annoying, frustratingly marvellous arse.

The former military man didn't know how it happened, how he (he, who had faced battle with an unshakeable strength) lost his willpower. But lose it he did. He was tumbling into his favourite chair, pulling down his trousers, yanking at his pants, his manhood absolutely hungry and swelling. And then his hand was pumping up and down his length, and he was spilling spilling spilling into his pants, biting his tongue to keep from screaming, all the while his eyes never wavering from Sherlock, from the two creamy boulders separated by that deep, dark, marvellous crack.

But suddenly the detective began to stir and John sat up in horror. The doctor moved faster than he ever had before, pulling his trousers up with shaky hands and hurrying to his room. Then, he made a less than elegant dive for the bed where he spent the longest time biting into a pillow to stifle his hurried breathing.

* * *

When Sherlock left the comfort of his mind palace and opened his eyes to the light of the flat, the air was silent. He and the skull were alone. He reached a hand out to rub the skull's smooth head, a sad smile on his face. Yet, when he felt a cool breeze brushing him in an area that it definitely shouldn't be, he sat bolt upright. His long fingers reached back to discover that a very large portion of his arse was exposed to the world. His jaw clenched in mortification and he quickly guided his trousers up to his waist, breathing a sigh of relief that John was not home yet.

Yes, Sherlock often said that his body was merely transport for his mind - and he truly believed this. But, while his mind was strong, it was held back by the annoying weaknesses of the body, such as the need for food, drink, and sleep. And while Sherlock required less sustenance and rest than most, he was still human. To be human was to be vulnerable. Naturally, Sherlock Holmes hated to look vulnerable because he hated to look so weakly human.

The detective hid his humanity behind elegant shirts, long coats, and tailored suits which enhanced his height and hugged his form in all the right places. He knew he was good-looking; _better_ than good-looking because his metamorphic eyes, bleach-white skin, and cello-like voice gave him a strangely unique, almost other-worldly appearance. And so, he dressed in a way to highlight these striking features, to emphasize his mysterious, enigmatic aura. To be naked was to be the epitome of vulnerable. For instance, if one were to see the detective's bare body, they would observe that he was not really as tall as he seemed and that, though his thin frame may look appealing under a suit, it appeared much more bony and frail in reality.

And, further, it was when one was naked that one gave into the finer emotions of lust and desire in the act of sex. It was when one was naked that they let go of all reason to have their mind clouded by the rush of passion that came with making love. It was when one was naked that they were completely at the mercy of another, that they revealed the depths of their caring for that person, and that they, therefore, lay themselves out on a platter to be hurt. _Caring is not stable, John. It is not based on reason. It is not rational. It makes the mind weak. Because if you care, you will get hurt. _

So perhaps now you will understand why Sherlock Holmes never _ever _wanted to be seen naked. Perhaps now you will understand that this was the most naked he had ever been outside of the privacy of his bedroom or bathroom. Perhaps now you will understand why he was so mortified to find that he had just exposed more of himself than he ever _ever _wanted to. Perhaps now you will understand why he was so incredibly relieved that John was not yet home and, therefore, had not seen the detective's near-naked shame and vulnerability.

But wait. As Sherlock's sea blue eyes darted around the flat, a knot formed in his throat. There was a dent in John's favourite chair that had not been there before...and the chair was an inch closer than it had been previously. Which meant that it had recently been sat in. As the detective inhaled, the knot in his throat tightened; there was a faint but fresh chlorine-like odour filling the air that most certainly had not been there earlier.

Observing a scene generally left the detective feeling smug and satisfied, while those around him were sent into blushes of humiliation. But this time it was quite different - this time, Sherlock Holmes' face was burning as red as a Baldwin apple.

The detective's face was burning out of sheer and utter humiliation. Yet it was not only humiliation at John's having witnessed (and responded to) his vulnerability. No, there was also the humiliation of realizing that he had thought - if only for a second - that if anyone were to see him in a vulnerable state, were to react to his being in a vulnerable state, he would very much like it to be his loyal, dependable, wonderful blogger.

And perhaps the most humiliating part of all was the realization that he, Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective, was far more human than he had ever imagined.

Emotions. How disgusting. And yet, how intriguing.


	10. The Tenth Chapter

_**Hi everyone! Thank you for your patience in waiting for this chapter. **_

_**Since my last update, some very amazing opportunities have come my way and I have taken them. Unfortunately, this means that starting next week I will not be able to update the fanfic on a regular basis. I will try to get updates out as much as possible (hopefully once a week, though please understand that I cannot promise this). And please know I will absolutely ABSOLUTELY finish this fanfic, even if it takes awhile to do so. **_

_**As always, thank you so so much for your support of this story. It really means the world to me.**_

_**A special thanks to beemoh, AiLoveS, tosinadekunle, WL Chastain, BlackPanther1987, EJ 12212012, Teshka, TopHatsandFezzes, and the awesome guests who have recently reviewed this piece.**_

* * *

John lay with a pillow jammed up his mouth for longer than he cared to imagine. And even when his heart rate and breathing finally calmed down, sleep proved impossible. Every time his eyelids drooped with exhaustion, his mind would fill with images of his flatmate sitting at the kitchen table in unbearably low trousers. Then John's eyes would shoot open in panic and he would will himself into reliving his most recent date with Mary. He would concentrate on her delicate smile, the way her cheeks glowed rosy with joy as she watched _Hamlet,_ the softness of her dainty little hands, the alluring colour of her blue blue eyes...how the blue would transform into sea green mixed with gold and grey, so impenetrable and mysterious and easy to get lost in and...NO, NO, _NO_! Damn it all to Hell, John didn't know how in the world it happened but Mary's eyes somehow turned into Sherlock's. Needless to say, John was still awake by the time the rising sun was caressing the peaks of London's buildings.

The doctor's stomach grumbled hungrily and he longed for a nice cuppa, some toast, and a hot shower to cut his weariness. But the creaking of footsteps and rustling of newspaper from downstairs kept him under the covers of his bed. He couldn't bear to see his flatmate - and he knew that he was being utterly ridiculous because Sherlock didn't know what had happened last night, Sherlock couldn't _possibly_ know what had happened last night, the detective had been completely lost in his mind and John had disappeared at the first signs of movement. But none of that mattered; John still firmly believed that starving would be a much more pleasant experience than seeing his curly-haired flatmate would be.

However, when his bladder began to ache, the doctor cursed under his breath and realized that he had no choice but to get up. He shivered as he threw the warmth of the covers away from his body. The chilly air sent him springing out of bed to find a jumper. He grabbed a clean one made of brown wool, gratefully throwing it on before glancing at his reflection in the mirror. He looked utterly dreadful. His hair stuck in every angle, his eyes were bloodshot, the bags under his eyes were a horrid shade of purple. And still, he didn't look as awful as he felt at the realization that he was about to leave the safety and security of his room. But when his stomach sent another wave of hungry vibrations through his body and that caused his bladder to practically burst, he opened his door. With a shuddering sigh, he stepped out into the flat and bee-lined for the bathroom.

* * *

When John entered the kitchen to make tea, he found Sherlock at the table, looking at the latest newspaper. And this time, in place of haphazard night clothes, the detective wore an immaculate black suit and ivory-coloured shirt.

John wanted to act as normal as possible. If anyone would know that something was bothering the former military man, it would most surely be the world's only consulting detective. So John pursed his lips, put the kettle on, and asked his friend, "Would you like some tea?" Much to his dismay, his voice came out squeakier than he had intended.

Sherlock did not respond to the question, continuing to keep his focus firmly on the paper. This lack of response was not particularly unusual - in fact, it was quite normal. Yet, when John eyed his flatmate, he did notice something that was out of the ordinary: though the detective's eyes were sharp, they were still...they were not darting back and forth feverishly the way they did when Sherlock was busy reading. No. Though Sherlock was adamantly concentrating on the pages in front of him, he was only staring at them, he was _not_ absorbing them. Which was very unusual since the detective generally studied the newspaper with a relish.

The kettle whistled and John carried it over to the kitchen table along with two mugs and a box of English Breakfast. He was beginning to relax a little at the thought of a nice steamy cup of tea, but this sense of calm was very short-lived - for, as the doctor reached towards a mug, so too did his flatmate and weathered fingers tangoed with long, pale ones. John gasped, drawing his hand back sharply and knocking the mugs to the floor. They bounced harshly once, twice, before shattering into pieces. And the poor doctor was left breathing heavily, cursing, and scrambling for a broom and dustpan.

Sherlock looked at John critically, frowning as he took in the man's unkempt hair and weary eyes. Finally, he muttered irritably, "Well, you're in lovely form this morning and you look even better."

John was on his hands and knees trying to clean up the broken shards of glass. It was certainly not the most comfortable position; even less so when a certain curly-haired genius was not willing to lift a finger to help. So perhaps it comes as no surprise that, at his flatmate's words, poor John scowled and said, "Ah, you're really cheeky, aren't you?" But, as soon as the words escaped his lips, a vivid image from the night before - one which consisted of his flatmate and, more precisely, his flatmate's arse cheeks - immediately filled his mind. He clasped a hand over his mouth as his face began to burn a hideous shade of red.

Sherlock was equally humiliated by the doctor's words, but the detective certainly did not want to reveal his embarrassment. He hurriedly placed the newspaper in front of his blushing cheeks, sucking at his bottom lip as he tried to keep his breathing steady. But something inside him cracked, something inside him burned, something inside him twisted and churned. Before he knew what he was doing, he had thrown the paper down on the table and spat in an angry voice, "Oh, do grow up, Doctor!"

John glanced at the curly-haired man apprehensively and, upon noticing the usually pale cheeks tinged in pink, swallowed heavily with dread.

"Gluteus maximus is a perfectly normal part of the anatomy," Sherlock hissed, leaning across the table. "Everybody has one, in fact you as a doctor have seen more of them than you probably care to count, so stop acting like mine is unusual!"

When John stared into Sherlock's sharp, penetrating eyes and found judgment and even something akin to hurt in them, he realized that Sherlock knew...Sherlock knew what had happened the night before. _Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. _Suddenly, John felt dizzy, nauseous, and so incredibly foolish.

"You know," the poor doctor finally whispered in disbelief, placing his head in his hands. "You know about last night...of course you do...bloody hell...how could I be such an idiot to think you wouldn't notice...you of all people...you and your massive intellect...bloody hell...you know..."

A thick, unbearable tension filled the room as John's stomach churned viciously and sickeningly, vomit threatening to bubble up into his throat and spill out of his mouth. But what did find its way up the doctor's throat was certainly not what he had expected. No. It was a tickling, bubbling, warm fuzzy something that came spilling forth. That something was laughter. John didn't know how or why he was laughing, but laughing he was. It was mirthful, silly, contagious laughter that sounded like the tingling of bells; a full-throated, stomach-crushing type of laughter that sent the body into aches of joy.

For a moment, Sherlock stared at his flatmate in utter shock. But then, the curly-haired man started to chuckle too, a low sound that erupted from the deepest part of his gut. And the two men laughed in unison for many minutes, clutching at their sides and gasping for air.

As their giggling died down, John felt his shoulders relax and a giddy calm fill his mind. A comfortable silence ensued, with Sherlock looking out the wide window and John finishing his sweep of broken glass.

While the doctor grabbed two more mugs from the cupboard and poured the contents of the kettle into each, Sherlock broke the silence, clearing his throat and asking in a nonchalant voice, "Did you enjoy your day with Mary?"

A nostalgic smile lit John's face as he remembered the play and dinner and the loveliness of it all. "Yes, very much." He padded over to the toaster, humming to himself as he set about slicing bread.

Sherlock watched John for a few moments with brows furrowed and eyes unblinking, taking in every aspect of the man's face. When he spoke again, his voice was flat. "So there was no sentiment attached to it."

"What's that?" the doctor asked, frowning with confusion as he placed bread into the toaster.

The detective gave his flatmate an agitated look as if it should be completely obvious what he was referring to. Then he said in a tone that should have sounded matter-of-fact, but which appeared instead to be teetering between making a statement and asking a question, "Last night. When you masturbated. There was no sentiment attached to the act - " _  
_

Well, at that, John shifted his weight uncomfortably; he felt puzzled, perplexed, rattled, and he could have sworn that there was a look of disappointment in the detective's eyes. He had no idea how to answer the statement...or had it been a question? Clearing his throat, the good doctor said, "Well. That's a positive thing though, isn't it? What is it you always say...that sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side?"

And then the detective's face was once again emotionless and unreadable, and John thought that perhaps he had imagined the look of disappointment that had grazed those angular features only seconds before. "Right. Of course it is," the detective said. "I am glad that your need to masturbate was not fuelled by sentiment, though of course your inability to control your sexual drive is a chemical defect in itself." But here, the detective's voice became agitated. "And regardless, you are still a creature of sentiment, it's just that your sentiments have shifted. There was a time when you were hopelessly attracted to me. You kissed me with purpose the night I rescued you at the pool. But the distant look in your eyes and the disgustingly sappy smile that came when I asked about your date with Mary...you are growing increasingly affectionate of her."

John gave Sherlock an exasperated look, his mouth hanging open as he found himself once again at a loss for words. He turned his attention to buttering his toast, spreading the butter thickly, evenly, and none-too-gently across the bread until it crumbled in the middle. "What are you saying, Sherlock? What do you want me to say? You broke the kiss at the pool...you...you walked away! Why are you bringing this up now?" John gave one final dramatic sweep of his knife, threatening to slash the toast into tiny little pieces. When he dared to look at the detective, he found that pale, beautiful face utterly expressionless. Taking a deep breath, he said in a calmer, steadier voice, "I like Mary more and more every day. She is wonderful. I am very happy that she is my girlfriend...And I am happy that you are my best friend. You will always be important to me."

Sherlock's gaze remained on the former army doctor and those sea blue eyes began to glow with a newfound and incredibly intense interest. Suddenly, "John..."

The doctor was quite startled by the sense of urgency in the detective's voice, and he looked up with alarm. "What?"

"You still...I observe that you still...also...would you..." Sherlock began slowly, his voice suddenly much quieter than usual, much more hesitant. "...nevermind." And, with that, the detective stood abruptly and walked into his room, slamming the door behind him.

Well, poor John was absolutely flustered. He was beyond befuddled. He was stupefied without a doubt. He ate his toast in one vicious bite and downed his tea in one violent gulp - it burned a slithering trail down his throat and esophagus. He needed a shower. He needed fresh air. He needed a walk. He needed space.

And he needed to see Mary - dependable, firm, steady Mary. His brain was absolutely, positively shaken and he longed to hold onto the stability that was her. Right now. He would go _right now_. To Hell with how he looked. He would shower when he got to her place.

He walked past the mantelpiece towards his shoes and coat, but something caught his eye. Something that hadn't been there the morning before. The skull was back at its usual post, and placed underneath it was a small, white item. At closer glance, John realized that it was a slip of paper covered in Sherlock's writing. The doctor gently slid the piece of paper out from its hiding spot and eyed the elegant cursive with curiosity. This is what he read:

_You are a male, British, who passed away due to severe cranial trauma when you were around fifty years of age. You clearly loved adventurous activities, as is evident from the various head injuries you sustained through the years. Perhaps your love for adventure is what killed you in the end, but I believe one of the most splendid ways to die is by doing something you enjoy. I am like you in that I too crave adventure, something dangerous and exhilarating with which to engage my mind. I am sorry that I do not know your name, but I do understand an integral part of you, a piece of what people like John Watson would call your soul. You have not fallen from memory._


End file.
